New Cullen
by sunshine1193
Summary: Meredith came to Forks years before Bella. One terrifying night with a nameless vampire changed her life. Now she is struggling with the decision of whose side to choose: the Cullens or the Volturi


I should probably start this formally.

Once upon a time, I lived in Chicago. I lived with my family in the city.

Then I moved.

I moved right after the accident. My dad and my brother went "racket balling", as they call it. It was eight o'clock at night. They were speeding. (They always are; what is it with men and driving stupidly fast?) They were rammed by a semi-truck at an intersection. They both died immediately on impact. When the police showed up at my door and told me, I was glad to hear this.

My mom was already dead by then, so I was all alone. My dad had a brother, living somewhere in Tuscany after retiring from a marketing business, but my mom was an only child. Both of my parents' parents were dead, too. So I had no one.

I never cry in front of people. Even when my mom was alive, I always reigned in the tears. I don't know why; I guess I'm just so dang prideful. But pride can save you from embarrassment. Sometimes.

But when I'm alone, I am a human-water hose. I cried more tears that night than I did my entire life. Cancer had claimed my mother. That had been painful, but at least she had known. She knew, and she did everything she wanted to before she died. This had been so sudden. Nature, and some stupid, half-blind Nabisco semi-truck driver, had claimed my dad and my brother. Some people are mean drunks. I'm a mean weeper. I could have killed anyone who walked into my room. No one did. Thanks for that.

I'm a singer. I was from birth. I could sing my little brother to sleep like no one could, not even Mom. My parents said that, when I was young, I sang an aria that would shame Handel's most prized soprano. It was probably just me screeching over wanting a cookie or something, but it made a nice story. I sang in the shower, but no one ever made fun of me. My brother brought home his friends once, and after I had showered I found them hunched outside my door. At least, I hope they were listening to my singing.

When I moved, I had to tell the Agency. You know, Child Protection Agency. They wanted to find me a home in Chicago. They wanted to put me close to home. I wanted to get out, as fast as possible. So I did.

I looked up cold, wet places in the U.S. At the moment the idea suited my mood, but then I went for it because of the novelty of it. I wanted a place that was new and different from Chicago with its bustling city and nice weather. Since I was seventeen, and still in raging-hormone-mode, they gave me the choice; there were restrictions, though. U.S. continental boundaries was the basic one. I would have _loved_ to go to Italy and learn Italian and made my living by painting and singing Italian operas.

Then I got a call from the agency hot-shot. He said that he had found a place for me. It was in Washington, on the Olympic Peninsula. There was a spit of a town called Forks hidden in the forest somewhere, and a single woman named Cherise Talbot wanted to take on a ward for the year. Perfect opportunity, he said.

Next thing I remember, I was packed and ready to go. Miss Talbot lived off town limits, but it was quiet and she had an upstairs bedroom she could give me.

Cherise was a little weird at first. I wondered why a woman like her hadn't got married. She was talkative, loved anything British, and had an amazing collection of tea pots. I talked to her on the telephone (she told me about the tea pots and sent me pictures before I left for Forks), and never set eyes on her as a tenant. Something happened first.

My first day in Forks. I had rode a bus from Port Angeles up to Forks and made it to school (Cherise had enrolled me early,) right at the pre-lunch class. Which was A.P. Calculus. I thrive in complicated subjects. I could tell my sub-teacher liked me. He was temporary, and would be moving soon. My classmates were jealous. Since I was new, they stared and asked me questions about the big city, making references to movies like _While You Were Sleeping. _I don't know how many times I told people that hot-dog stand really didn't exist.

And then it was lunch.

I noticed five people at a far lunch table.

They were all beautiful. I won't even bother describing them. There were three boys, a burly dark haired one, a russet haired one, who looked younger, and a golden blond. He held my attention for some time. There were two other girls, one with porcelain-delicate features and spiky black hair. The other was inhumanly blonde and gorgeous. They all had pale skin and dark eyes, like night creatures from the Underworld. There was no way they were just friends. They looked like siblings, thought their coloring was _way _off. I didn't bother to ask anyone who they were. I sat alone; I hadn't made any efforts to make friends. That could come later. I just wanted to find my new house and get on with life. But the five gorgeous people were good distractions to my pain. They were . . . amazing to look at. They would make anyone jealous. They were so beautiful it hurt to look.

I didn't like them.

Anyway, I ignored them for the rest of the day. I talked to no one, though they talked to me. This was how I liked it. No interesting response turned people off quickly. Three hundred people in one tinny school was like cake to me, after having a thousand people in my graduation class. At Forks High School, in one single day, I remembered everyone's face and name. Like I said, Cake and Ice Cream.

It happened after school.

Since it was winter, it got dark right after school. I was to walk to Cherise's house. It wasn't far. But then I was about to cross the Main Street crosswalk. I heard nothing but the screeching of tires, I saw nothing but the blaze of headlights, and then I crumpled as the car bulldozed me down. I flipped over the hood and lay in a heap of pain and death on the passenger's side. I knew I had broken bones. _I want to die_, said my conscience. My brain was throbbing and wanting not to work. _Shut _up_, you don't know what you're talking about_, I snapped back. I heard a door slam and patient footfalls on the pavement. _I'm bleeding, I'm dying, and you're taking your own sweet time rescuing me?!_ I wanted to shout, but my lungs did not want to inflate, and my ribs would take no crap from them. _You ran me down with your car and you think it's funny? If I die, you're facing jail time, mister. _I tasted a river of blood in my mouth. Death, it was the taste of death.

Then I was hauled to my feet (_per say_) by a pair of white hard hands and I heard a male voice say, "Sorry about that, pretty, but I'm hungry." It was a lovely voice, one that had potential in singing, I could tell. But it was also like acid. It burned my ears to hear it and made me cringe with fear.

And he bit me.

He _bit _me. He tore my throat with a brutal scissoring of teeth. I felt the blood leave me in spurts. I felt him sucking it up, and I felt a fire start to blaze inside me. mingling with the waves of sick. Now both my conscience and me wanted to die. Just a few more moments and I would be a life-less corpse, blood left. Character terminated. I would see my mother, and my father and brother again. Happiness was coming, but then I only felt pain and a draining sensation that made what was left of me want to throw up. _Too much pain, _I thought as the fire grew to a roaring blaze. _Too much pain. Make . . . it . . . stop . . ._

_. . . please . . ._

As if agreeing, my murderer dropped me. I flopped to the ground without a sound and smacked my head on the pavement. Moor blood. Blood letting, they used to call it. Soon there would be nothing in me but pale innards. It's a strange feeling, a hopeless feeling, to be crippled and know my murderer was leaving me behind. I knew he had gone, but I didn't hear him go. I tried to find my voice. I tried to sing, to calm myself in my last moments of life, but what came out was a scream. I screamed and screamed, and my ears could not distinguish the words I shrieked. I was trying to say, _Someone hear me. Someone, see me! Save me! _But I knew I was beyond saving. The end was coming.

I thought, before I blacked out, I saw a pale face looking down on me, contorted with pain and . . . pity. He wasn't my killer. He was a spectator, and I was angry with him for watching, and not helping. _Just as well, _I thought, _I'm dying anyway. _Then it was black.

Hearing is the last thing to go. People might hear impossible things before they die, people speaking to them in the past. The fly buzzing by the lamp near their death bed. I heard the sirens.

I remember seeing the white lights of the hospital flashing by above me. I remember feeling the rawness of my throat from screaming. I remember hearing urgent voices, and feeling the rush of pain coming from everything. I remember someone saying in a beaten voice, "Time of death, eight forty-seven." And then I felt arms around me and then I was flying faster than the speed of light.


End file.
